Poem – Peter Olds

Here, I can own you.
Here, on this seat they’ve placed in your honour,
there’s nobody to move me on.

There’s nobody to tell me my poems are good or bad.
There’s only Saturday evening cars going up and down
Lachlan Avenue,
to the supermarket, coffee shop, bottle store––
who cares?
All that matters is I can own you this short time––
have you to myself.
Childishly I ask for a sign:
a sign of some sort to show the way clear,
a path that might lead to some meaningful place.

There’s no one here to tell me to clear off:
no one on the soccer field,
no walkers with dogs,
only cars and the big sky stretching above
North East Valley
and the odd winged insect buzzing around my neck.